Let’s make a fairy house!

“Daddy!” Her bare feet slap the floor as she runs to me across the living room, her smiling mouth sing-songs “let’s make a fairy house!”, announcing with those five words that my saturday is fucked.
“Uhhhh… sure baby, we’ll do that!” I squat down - ow, shit, what’s that twinge in my back? - “Let’s have a good morning hug!”
“Okay!” She wraps her arms around my neck while I cross my arms under her legs and stand.
“Good morning!” I kiss her forehead.
“Good morning Daddy!”

I carry her toward the kitchen, trying to look past the cloud of brown curls that shoot out of her head in all directions in order to watch for when I need to kick some item into to some other corner of the room, rubble redistributed to save my feet and prevent falls. The debris in our living room contains multiple traps. Some are sharp cornered – wooden blocks, plastic Duplo blocks, Barbie dolls, and hardcover books – while others are slippery – fancy scarves and princess costumes with skirts made of a partially see through mesh fabric that’s a bit scratchy and feels like plastic and which slides like olive oil if you step on it – and still others are breakable, and emotionally important to my kids – a silver plastic crown that says Appy Birt da because several letters have cracked off. A few terrible little bastards fit in multiple categories, like die-cast trains that both punch the nerves in the feet and slide out from under you at top speed, and our cats, who have sharp claws and my daughters’ adoration.

“Have you had breakfast?”

“Yes.”
“Would you sit with me while I fix some coffee and make your mama a cup of tea?”
“Yes.”

I set her in her chair. She begins telling me something about the kind of fairy house she wants to make and the kind of fairy she hopes will live in it. I admit I mostly listen to the tune, not the lyrics – she’s pausing, I should say “oh!” or “uh huh!” now – while I fill the electric kettle. Shit, the jar of coffee grounds is empty. I get more from the freezer.

“An animal fairy, eh? Tell me more.” Where are all the god damn mugs? On top of the right hand sink, a mixing bowl. Just breaking the surface of the water and soap bubbles in the left hand sink, a pot. I have been making an effort to wash the dishes really regularly. It’s often the first thing I do when I get home from work and when I get up in the morning. Our sinks here are the shallowest of any place I’ve lived. They’re about half as deep as our large soup pot. They are always completely full after one meal if that meal involved any preparation more involved than microwaving leftovers or popping a frozen pizza in the oven. The sight of these overflowing sinks would have their own row if I kept a spreadsheet of number of teethgrinds and jaw clenches organized by reasons. (Mental note, start that spreadsheet.) Whatever organ metabolizes exasperation gets quite a workout these days. Then again, these mini-sinks empty quickly every time I wash dishes and reaching the bottom of one of those stupid sinks ranks high on what would be the short list of times I feel a sense of accomplishment these days. (Mental note, do not start an actual list.)

I flip the lid on the white plastic electric kettle, fill a jar with water, dump it into the kettle, refill, dump again. I grab a dish towel, drape it over my shoulder, reach into the cold soapy water in the sink, pull the plug, watch mugs rise out of the chilly suds, put the plug back in, run the hot water, wash and rinse a mug. The warmth feels good on my hands, in my hands. I don’t know how else to say it, my knuckles warm up and feel less creaky. I dry the mug, set it on the counter, wash, rinse, dry a second. The kettle clicks. I drop a tea bag in one mug, pour the water and scoop coffee grounds into the mug-top filter thinger (that’s the technical term). “Your tea is brewing on the counter!” I holler across the house to my wife.

As I pour the water over the grounds to make my coffee I realize my daughter is still speaking. Did she stop and just start again? Has she been speaking the whole time? I don’t know. The last I remember she was describing the merits of different kinds of fairies and their architectural preferences. I tune back in, say “oh!” and “hmm hmm” to feign interest. She is still describing what kinds of houses what kinds of fairies prefer - “water fairies like houses with fountains because fountains have water in them and water fairies like water” - but I am unsure if she was been repeating herself, riffing with only the most minor variation like a trance-inducing Steve Reich composition, or if she broke off and only just started speaking again. This may become a problem soon because her opinions about the best kinds of fairies and the best kinds of houses to attract them will, I am sure, be important later for making a fairy house.

I cup my hands around a weakly guttering hope that I can talk her into merely drawing a fairy house but I know that this, like all hopes, will die, trampled under the ballet slippered hooves of my darling dear. We will, I know with lips pressed in a thin line, certainly be cutting shapes from construction paper and probably be outside - in the air! and sun! gross! - gathering sticks and leaves. I worry for a moment that being listened to about the needs of pixies will be important to her future self-esteem and so I am now on this saturday causing the path of her future life to bend toward the darker side, damning her to decades of attempting to win the affections of emotionally distant partners who are interested in her only for her excellent taste in books and music, her good looks, and her delightful sense of humor (she takes after me).

I pour her bowl of cereal, pour my own, sip my coffee while we both eat.
“Did you have any dreams?”
“Not that I can remember. Animal fairies prefer houses that - ”

I try. I really do. It’s not that I don’t care. I do care. Kinda. But I can’t keep it all straight, the kinds of fairies don’t make sense to me and I can’t help ask questions - in my mind, never out loud, as she rages or eyerolls if I say these categories don’t make sense, and I am not sure what is worse, a five year old shouting or telegraphing teenagerhood by an eyeroll conveying “ugh you don’t get it, oldie olderson.” It doesn’t help me to follow along that she talks while eating, while wiping her mouth, while picking out a piece of cereal that has become stuck between two teeth, while turning backward in her chair to look at two of our cats watching a squirrel out the living room window, while crossing the kitchen to the bathroom to pee, and while peeing. This is fundamentally a monologue about fairies, not a conversation. It’s basically a lot like she writes a blog, except she will later expect me to have read it and digested its contents well enough to act on them in making a picture or model to her exact specifications (“I TOLD you!” she will no doubt say at some point today at least twice.) I’m also tired and tense from work and jobhunting and even when all of that’s going well parenting is just so relentless, it’s a bit like walking an adorable tiny poodle except one that’s freakishly strong and fast and drags you for miles through rocks, mud, glue, crayons, construction paper, glitter.

We finish eating. I suggest she sketch the fairy house on paper first, still clinging to a slim rock of hope as I dangle over the edge of the cliff that is an arts and crafts project. “Good idea,” she says as she stomps on my metaphorical fingers, “then we’ll know how to cut it out of the milk jug.” I plummet, despair.
“Milk jug?”
“Yes. We can cut the house out of a milk jug.”
“Great!” I fake. “You sketch, I’ll gather up what we need.” I rummage for our utility knife, glue, scissors, and tape. I’m sure we’ll want all of it at some point.
She finishes her sketch, explains that she wants a fireplace.
“How about if we make the fireplace out of cut out construction paper?”
“NO!” she shouts.
“If you’re already yelling at me and we haven’t even started then I am not going to do this with you.”
“I wasn’t trying to yell.”
“Even if you’re not trying to tell, I don’t want to be yelled at.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Okay. I forgive you. Can I just show you what I mean by a cut out of construction paper fireplace?”
“Okay but I don’t think I will like it.”
“Okay. If you don’t like it then we’ll do some other way, okay?”
“Okay.”

I cut a big square of red and a small rectangle of black which I glue to the top of the square for the mantle top. I cut a long thin rectangle of red that I glue to the back of the red square, for the chimney. I cut a medium sized black square that I glue to the bottom of the front of the red square for the opening in the fire place. I cut three small rectangles of brown for logs and cross them over each other, glue them together and then to the black square. I cut small teardrop shapes of yellow and orange, glue them to the paper logs.

“That looks GREAT!” she shouts.
“I’m really glad!” My heart jumps in my chest. I momentarily forget about the 65 job letters, the deadline tomorrow, the sleepless nights from thinking about our dwindling savings and the upcoming end of this job and whether I can stand living with my mother-in-law in her basement, and where would our cats go, and the knee pain that’s come back because I haven’t been doing the regular exercises I need for proper alignment, and the worry that I’m a narcissist, and that I’m getting fat, and old, and have white hairs in too many places, and how I’ve started drinking beer really fast when I first get home from work to take the edge off. She likes the fairy house! That means she likes me! She’s going to grow up happy and well-adjusted and make loads of money and have wonderful relationships! I am the best dad ever!

“Now let’s make a scene!”
“What?”
“A scene. Let’s make a scene.”
“What kind of scene?”
“A camping scene.”
“Okay.”

She gets out drawing paper, has me draw a tent, a lake, a campfire. While she directs me she draws a lake in blue crayon and a sky in black, a spot of yellow in the lake and bigger spot in the sky, “that’s the moon and its reflection! Now I’m drawing grass, just like you showed me!” Over Christmas she found the sketchpad from the drawing class I took in college on the theory that since I feared drawing I should take a class on it. The pad was somewhere in the basement I don’t want to move into at her grandma’s house. She’d flipped through it, found pages full of drawings of tall beach grass.
“What are these, they look like grass?” she’d asked.
“They’re grass.”
“That’s a funny thing to draw.”
“It is pretty funny to draw grass. My drawing teacher had us draw it because she wanted us to practice our lines.”

“What?”
“Our lines. She wanted us to make long unbroken lines. She would always say ‘big, beautiful lines.’” I didn’t mention how the drawing class gave me migraines. “When I used to draw before I took that class I always wanted to do lots and lots of tiny little lines, but she would say ‘don’t pick up the pencil at all, just make long lines with no gaps in them.’ Do you know what a gap is?”
“No.”
“It’s like a hole. Here, let me show you.” I’d drawn several small hatch marks connected into a long line across a page then one long unbroken line. “The little white spaces between the small lines, those are gaps.”
“Will you show me how to draw grass?”
“You want to learn to draw grass?”
“Yes.”
“Then sure.” We both took sheets of paper. “You draw a line kind of straight and then curvy like this. Then another one sort of similar like this. Then another and another and another.” She drew the same sorts of lines as I did as I talked. “They can be a little taller and shorter than each other.”
“Like real grass.”
“Exactly, like real grass. And at first they just look like funny lines but when there’s more of them they start to look like grass. Try to make them really big across the whole page and don’t pick up the crayong. Big beautiful lines.”
“Hey it looks like grass!”
“It does!”
“I drew grass!”
“You did! Do you like it?”
“Yes. You’re a good art teacher Daddy. Thank you for showing me how to draw grass.”
“Thank you, and you’re welcome.”
“Maybe if you can’t find another job you could find a job as an art teacher.”
“I’ll see about that. Thank you for the suggestion.”
“You’re welcome.”

“I like the moon and the lake and the reflection.”
“And the grass.”
“Yes. I like the grass too.”
“It’s like you showed me at Grandma’s house.”
“I’m glad, it’s cool that you remembered that. I finished the camping scene.”
“Good. That’s a sketch.”
“What?”
“That’s a sketch, before you cut out the parts out of construction paper.”
“You want me to cut this stuff out of construction paper?”
“Yes. It needs to be on a dark blue paper too,” she nods slowly, gravely, “because it’s a night scene. That’s why they need a camp fire.”
“Okay.”

I draw a new campfire circle of stones with grey, cut it out, paste it onto the blue construction paper. I cut out logs, fire, gray smoke, glue that inside the paper circle of stones. I cut out a purple triangle, draw a line down the center of it. “That’s the tent.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. It’s not dark enough.”
“How about if I color over it with black?”
“NO! IT HAS TO LOOK LIKE NIGHT TIME!”
“Don’t yell at me.” I can feel tightness in my temples.
“I didn’t try to.”
“I don’t care if you tried or not, it’s annoying whether or not you tried,” my voice is edged with sarcasm and rising volume.
“You’re being mean.”
Now I want to be, if I’m being honest. “You’re the one yelling at me but I’m the one being mean?” The tightness in my temples loops around itself, ties tightly into a knot, throbs. Headache’s arrived. I take a deep breath to try to cool my temper and this headache.
“I just want it to look like night time.”
“Right. So you want it darker than this purple color.”
“Right.”
“Okay. So how about I darken it with black?”
“No! Not with black!”
“Well,” I sigh, press my knuckles into both temples, “could I darken it with some other color?”
“The paper is blue.”
“Right. So? Oh, wait, so the blue is night time darkness?”
“Yes.”
“And so if I darken the tent with black it’s not the same darkness?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I think I understand.”
“Good. Maybe you could draw the tent.”
“Draw on the construction paper?”
“Yes.”
“It might not show up,” what the fuck is wrong with me? why did I say that? She might have let me get away with a drawing now instead of a cut out but I had to pre-ruin it. “But I’ll try it and you tell me.” I draw a tent. It barely shows up on the dark blue paper. “That’s pretty dark, right?” She nods her head.
“Is that okay?”
She nods again.
“Great. I need a break baby, I’m going to get a glass of water.”
“One minute Daddy, you’re almost done.”
“What?”
“You just have to make the people.”
“The people?”
“Yes. Make people out of construction paper. They should have pretty clothes and the lady is holding a baby.”
“I… uh…” why did I agree to do this? why do we encourage her to do art? why doesn’t she watch more TV? “Okay. I’ll try. What are the people doing?”
“They’re sitting down by the fire.”
“Okay. Would you sit down for a second like you want them to be sitting so I can try to draw that?”
“Okay.”

She sits with legs folded, hands in lap, raises her chin, raises her eyebrows slightly. She looks so serious, a tiny adult rather than a kid. I have a momentary flash of her as a grown up and one of those parental rushes of love that are so sudden and concentrated that they almost hurt, one of those moments where I think she’s absolutely perfect then worry that others won’t get that, how could anyone appreciate exactly how awesome this kid, this person is? This all lasts an eyeblink, before I start trying to sketch the lines of her legs, arms, back. She keeps fidgeting, moving a foot, stretching, straightening her legs, refolding them with the other leg on top.

“Stop it!” Oh man. Why am I talking in that tone of voice?
“What?!”
“You’re… you’re moving around a lot, just give me a second. Like ten seconds okay? I’ll count to ten and you try to keep as still as possible during that time? Okay?”
“Okay.”
“One.” My head throbs. “Two.” Again. “Three.” It throbs on every number.
She sits very patiently and quietly, she’s really getting to be a big kid now sometimes, and part of me wants to tear this drawing up in front of her face, wants to lay on the floor and beg her to let me stop drawing because my head hurts so bad right now. I press my knuckles into my temples again.

“Good job sitting so still!” I pat her shoulder, “Thank you for doing that. It helps to have something to look at to get the legs folded right.” It also helps if you don’t expect to be shouted at for making a mistake. I don’t have that kind of help. She’s an exacting director. My wife has said about our kid once in a fit of anger hissed to me in the kitchen, “sometimes when I make art with her and she has tantrums I think about how lots of great artists have reputations for being assholes to work for.” If the lady with the baby doesn’t look right or if the legs are the wrong size this art session will not end well.
I draw the people, try to figure out which parts are negative space and which are positive space, try to cut out construction paper pants accordingly and my brain walks off the job. I just can’t do it anymore. The lines on the paper stop making sense.
“Honey I need a break.”
“You’re almost done Daddy.”
“My head really hurts. I need a break.” My pulse is hammering in my right temple especially. Between beats it hurts and on beats it really hurts.
“You can have a break when you’re done, please finish it first.”
“No.”
“But why?”
“Because my head hurts and concentrating on this is making it worse.”
“I’m sorry your head hurts Daddy but you’re almost finished, please just finish the scene first.”
“No.”
“But why?”
“I told you why. I don’t want to argue about this. Take no for an answer.”
“Please, Daddy.” Her voice is calm, reasonable. I raise mine.
“NO.”
“Okay Daddy how about-”
“No! I’m done!” I’m at the border of shouting, as close as possible without crossing.
“What if, what if you” her voice is wobbling now, she’s upset and not in an about to tantrum way but in an about to start crying because she’s sad or maybe scared way. I realize my hands are clenched into fists and I am leaning forward toward her. Am I scaring her? Please don’t let me be scaring her. “what if you just draw it instead of cutting it all out of paper, I just really want you to finish the drawing for me.” Part of me relaxes when she says that, the rest of me tightens up, coiling like a spring.

I stand quickly.
“I have to stop now.”

I walk out of the room, she follows me, continuing to plead. I’m trying really hard not to stomp my feet. I walk into the living room where my wife is telling our younger daughter that it’s nap time.
“I need you to switch with me right now, like right this second, my head is killing me and the drawing is making it worse and I need a break and she’s,” I lower my voice to a hiss and whisper, the word comes out like ffffffking “relentless right now.”
“Uhhhhh okay.”

I go into the bathroom, pull the door shut - it takes a ton of work not to slam it, I think to myself that no one will ever thank me for that work then think do you really expect a fucking medal for not slamming the fucking door what is wrong with you? I run the tap cold, block the drain, set my glasses on the counter, dip my head in the sink. The tightness in my temple doubles under the could water, turns to a kind of burning feeling, then begins to numb. I sigh. I hear the door open.
“Daddy, please-“
“Honey my head hurts like crazy, I’m running it under cold water right now.”
My wife follows her in, picks her up, “Daddy needs a break right now. When someone needs a break you let them have it.”
“But the picture-“
“No,” my wife says and carries our daughter out of the room. Our daughter begins to shout.

I keep my head in the sink full of cold water for a county of twenty, stand up, wipe water from my forehead and eyes. My head hurts, but less. I dry off with a towel, count to ten, recite the alphabet backwards, take a deep breath. Another. I just had a temper tantrum over some crayon and construction paper drawing and craft activity. I’m not far from forty years old. I say the alphabet backward again, take off my glasses, rub my eyes, put my glasses back on, smile, take another deep breath.

“Okay honey,” I call as I open the bathroom door, “Let’s finish this picture.”
I draw the people on white paper, color in their clothes and hair, cut them out, glue them to the blue paper.
“Ooh it looks really good!”
I smile. It makes the headache easier to take, turns my embarassment at losing my cool from hateful shame to laughing self pity, still in the realm of less than laudable emotions but better. Henchmen emotions instead of villain emotions.
“Thanks baby.”

My wife and younger daughter walk into the room “nap time,” my wife says, “let’s say good night!”
“Nye-nye!” says our younger.
“Want to see our pictures first?”
“Sure.” We show them.
“Alright, now it’s nap time.” My wife picks up the little one, carries her out of the room.

“Thank you for making that picture Daddy,” my older kid says. “I made one too.” She holds up her paper, also blue, a lake drawn in lighter blue, a white lowercase ‘c’ in the lake, a capital ‘c’ above the lake. “See? A moon, and a reflection of the moon in the lake.” She points to green lines along the lake, “and grass, like you showed me.” Some of the lines have brown lines at their tips, “and these are cat tails.”
“I love it.”
“Thank you.”

At my house I say “hard work makes your brain grow” a lot (because of paranoia due to a book I read about the harm done by the idea that intelligence is a fixed quantity displayed by effortless activity, rather than a quality increased by effort). She says it back to me now, adding “I know you worked hard on your scene you made.”
“I did.”
“Maybe that’s why your head hurt.”
“From the hard work? I think so.”
“From your brain growing.”
“Could be.” Is it this annoying for her when I talk like this? If not, I’m sure it will be some day. I eye the mattress in the corner of this room, our combo office, kid art-room, and guest room. “So, sweetie, would you like to watch a DVD now?”